night owl loves early bird
by Black White and Superstitious
Summary: Just know that it's like this; sometimes these tiny terrors gush up into big and beautiful beasts. /drabble. Current Chapter: stolen sun
1. Today

**:Today:**

 **.**

 **.**

He hides when he's tired, and that's certainly what he is - with shadows under his eyes, and hidden wrists, and his dry tongue - he retreats into his room and locks the door. In general, his roommates leave him alone.

But in what he considers his most serious lapse of judgment, he gave Miku a key.

Miku, who hums irritating pop tunes from the radio. Miku who has no thought filter (or no thoughts worth filtering). Miku, who constantly bumps things off tabletops without noticing. Miku who throws the curtains apart and lets the sun jump into Len's dark, dusky room. Blinding, burning all the time, her hair shouting its teal hue, she is the most unsubtle girl in the world. She invites herself into the bed, if only because he's too tired to protest.

And she _whispers_ against him.

Gentle tones, she's learned, because people can always learn a thing or two. He relishes the quiet, and now, he relaxes in the noise.

While toying with his mussed hair, she coos. "How's Today?"

He rolls over the rumpled blankets on his side, facing her. "I haven't met her; I hope I don't."

Miku is awed by the scratchy words.

The hair that she strokes is sharp gold, but still soft as a dream. She has never seen the color of the sky so clear and strong in someone's eyes. The frown on his face is so classic for him, just as it is a little irritating.

She runs her thumb over his chapped lips and sighs, "one look and Today would drop everything to steal you for herself."

He groans softly. When those heavenly eyes peel away from her in embarrassment, she feels a little piece of her heart being torn from her chest.

But he doesn't recoil; he hides his face in the crook of her neck, desperately close to her heart. She feels his burning cheek against her. His breath is thin and careful. His arms slide around her waist and lock into place there.

That's the _don't go_ signal, the _Today can't take me from you_ signal.

Her heart agrees in Morse code.

* * *

Uhhhhh I got impulsive again, I may just publish a lot of nonsense in this thing, since everyone else seems to do oneshots as well.

my soul screams for negibanana, can you honestly blame me?


	2. Dew

**~Dew~**

It was the death of all thought and coherence.

The lazy heat had baked his brain, warping the shapes of the neighborhood into impressionist blobs, tinged orange and gold. Cicadas reigned supreme then, and they screamed bloody murder from the exhausted trees. An ancient beagle gave up his patrol of the sidewalk, flopping to the ground in defeat. Everyone in the entire state wanted to drop dead. Certainly the fires of hell would be kinder than this.

His shirt just stuck to him like a second layer of flesh. The air was so sluggish that he couldn't feel it glide into his lungs. Tying his shaggy hair into a ponytail had been the ultimate act of desperation; since his mane was the world's greatest insulator, binding it did nothing to fend off the heat.

As he dried out on that porch, he had the aching sense that he was an idiot. He couldn't think it, though. His ideas were fuzzy, each a quivering miraj in the distance.

Not that he found himself bothered by it. The world around him was evermore vivid. _Her_ fingers, sticky and red from the popsicle, were glued and knotted with his. He had no mind to question how that had happened.

He turned from the casual beauty of the summer evening and found her fresh teal eyes instead. Her stained mouth flickered with words between her pants, even quirking up in a momentary smile when she noticed his attention on her. Perspiration glittered as diamonds on her rosy skin.

He heard not a single word, but _her voice_ was the most true and clear thing he'd ever had the pleasure of experiencing.

A lull, the song of a brook, trickling straight through him -

that was the voice which blessed his spirit with watery kisses,

feeding the bud of some wild plant at the pit of his heart.

He couldn't think as he shifted forward.

Her lips were still cool from her frozen treat, her tongue smooth and strawberry sweet. Perfectly delectable. A careless hand wandered up her shoulder, trailing goosebumps in its wake. A stray thumb hooked on the slipping strap of her tank top.

The bud flourished, a burst of colorful petals decked in dew.

He couldn't think.

Her breath cut sharply into his. Chills scurried up his spine, while she turned to stone. A twinge of fear made him pull back.

When his eyelids drifted back up, he witnessed the most painful scarlet flush that she'd ever worn. No shame or discomfort muddied this color. Pure shock was the culprit. She touched her lips, now warm, glossed with his eagerness.

Wait, there was a thought.

"Again."

She could easily raise a garden in him.

* * *

"...For now, these hot days, is the mad blood stirring." ~Benvolio, _Romeo and Juliet_

This quote is literally Benvolio saying "let's go inside because I don't wanna get into a Goddamn fight to the death u hotheaded prick" to Mercutio.

Buuuuuuut I took it outside of it's context and used it to play around with some Romanticism - the themes of love and nature. So I'm a sap. Sue me.


	3. In Our Ink

·.~In Our Ink~.·

Miku didn't want to see the empty chair again.

If she sat down, she would bury her gaze into the poorly cleaned tiles. She would focus on grime that had been entombed in the floorwax. She never took out the notes, only stared and breathed, only thought. Three hollow minutes would pass before Mr. Hiyama started taking attendance in a groggy drawl. Between "Kagene" and "Kokone", he would falter. Miku would instinctively turn to the seat on her right.

Her stomach would just curl and twist onto itself, eat its own walls, drink its own pain. Then she would bolt, scrambling to the bathroom. Sometimes she spewed, sometimes she didn't. Sometimes it was acid and sometimes it was mercy. Skipping breakfast didn't stop anything, since all she needed was a single reminder, of which she had plenty.

Like the notebook.

Miku couldn't help dying a little when she first opened it, because it was overflowing with Kagamine Len. Every letter was his work. She was the slacker who would borrow his notes after class - since he never told her to stop doing it. Sure, he hardly ever talked, but his was the ultimate command whenever he deigned to speak. (And she would give her right arm even just to hear him say "no" one more time.) Len, for his lack of objection, had allowed her to imprint on him, like a stray cat becoming attached to a benevolent passerby.

He always understood the lecture better. He always stayed awake when the teacher lulled into a boring tangent, always wrote the fastest, even though he was the sloppiest, always in blue ink, always huffed when she leaned over and added pink flowers and green T. Rexes to his script because he would be annoyed at all the space her arm took up when it was looped through his and -

-and there was one page, in the very back of the notebook, which she thought he would never have looked for. She'd filled it up with hearts of yellow and green, and added her name, then his - Miku, then Kagamine - tendrils of cursive foolishness that had made her giggle so much at the time.

That paper is peppered with blue hearts now.

The corner is soaked red.


	4. Leech

You gave me the most precious thing.

* * *

"I'm sorry,"

She chokes on heaven's nectar,

"I'm sorry,"

she cries with a tongue drenched in stolen property,

"I'm so so so sorry,"

her stomach is brimful, sated.

He stares at the ceiling while his gaze blackens with hate; now his eyes are a starless night sky. He's become cold ash, dropped from a dead fire.

He is tired of all her contrition without penance.

(And she is still only as sorry as she is thirsty.)

She wants to lap up the rest of the mess - a waste, she mourns as more blood slides out of his wound - but she knows she's had her fix, which is more than enough to hurt him. The dizziness has faded, her insides no longer burn. All that remains is a primal craving for his flavor.

His iron, his crimson, his sugar, his heat. His pain.

(All of it from his heart, which she wants more than anything in the world.)

Her quaking fingers sluice the red off of her chin. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. Forgive me."

She can't touch. It is hypocritical, yes, that she sprang upon him, and now she remembers that she has no right to him.

(At least that is the case by human standards - her adopted standards.)

"Get Dell," he croaks, still glaring away from her. He struggles to sit up, his essence dripping over the floorboards. He hisses through his teeth after the slightest motion.

Her heart thuds. "Please, I-"

"Get. Dell."

The girl rises, swaying as much as a plant in the wind. Bitter tears cut across her cheeks. He pays her no mind, busy with the trouble of his own body, and she goes. She wipes her hands on her dress while the nausea battles satisfaction in her.

* * *

I don't regret it at all, do you?

* * *

Miku peers around the corner, satisfying her curiosity from a generous distance.

Len is drowing in sleep, his throat swathed in gauze. Cold sweat stands on his deeply furrowed brow. He is still ash, burned white and left without a spark of fire afterwards. The smell that lingers on him is still tempting beyond temptation.

She winces for what she has done, but it's not enough to be abhorred. She must reform or else she's a beast with an unused conscience.

Dell watches her spying, wearing his disdain like a badge. He thinks the exact same thing as her, and he isn't afraid of saying so. The black bag waits on the desk while he saunters over to her, toying with a roll of bandages in one hand. "All this trouble," he clicks his tongue, "just eat him whole already."

Her flinch makes the older man chuckle. For a moment, he contemplates. She counts the stains on the hardwood. A bony finger hooks under her chin and lifts her face. Dell murmurs, "Don't make pets of your livestock in times of famine."

She snatches the roll, squishing it between clammy palms.

"He is not a cow, nor is he a dog," She seethes. Her skin tingles where the doctor touched her - he is empty of any warmth, any hunger, any color. Like a slab of stone, there is no sign of vitality in him; whereas her chest throbs with the life force that was never her own.

* * *

I wouldn't trade this for the world.

* * *

Len presses himself against the glass, relishing the buttery light and all its summer glory. According to the Dell, he should not be on his feet, but he is more restless than pained at this point. The anaemia cannot trump his homesickness. Try as he might, the slightest pain will drag him back to precious memories of life before the Hatsune clan. That hurts more than anything. In the garden down below, he imagines his little sisters, screaming, giggling, racing around as they admire the wildflowers, all thriving in the unkempt grass.

His eyes slide closed. The window is warm against his forehead.

A misstep in the distance causes the floor to squeak.

"What?" His head snaps up and she stops, hovering on the blue border between the dark and bright halves of the room. A delicate pink is spread over her face and lips. In a nervous rhythm, her chest shifts with the effort of her lungs. That is his living blood at work in another's veins, as miraculous as it is heinous.

She's not sorry for being a thief. He knows. What he doesn't know is if he hates her lies more, or her crime.

Miku bites her lip, fangs glittering as she does. "May I come in?" She whispers, gesturing to the plot of sunshine that he broods in.

He eyes her predatory teeth. "No." His throat aches more now than it did the first time he was bitten. Then again, her impulsive attack is bound to cause more damage than a purposeful one. Not knowing her own strength, she can kill him if she really loses control.

"Are you still hurting?" she asks softly. If she thinks he's afraid, she isn't wrong, but he is too human - proudly so - to let her call him out on the weakness.

"Go away." It's her room.

"You need to eat something..."

"It's not like you brought any food," Len scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest.

Her hands dart behind her back. She is rightfully embarrassed that she doesn't know what to feed him. Not that she had much in the way of opportunities to learn. They avoided discussing their favorite foods, and in general their diets, as those have always been...sensitive topics. But it's more stupid than polite to avoid the issue, at this point. He's literally the fucking chew toy for a teething young vampiress.

"I'm not coming back before you fall asleep," she announces, picking at her black sleeve.

"Fascinating," he says.

"Is there something you need before I go?"

"Why are you even awake at this time?" His eyes narrow.

She flashes a bitter, closed-mouth smile. "I'd miss the sun if I waited too long."

Len feels all of the stony anger tremble as if in an Earthquake. The edges crumble. Cracks slither through his emotion and a dim ray of empathy bleeds through. She used to stare from the shadow-laden corner while he drank up the daylight. He used to stare back, into the abyss, a jab of fear meeting a twinge of pity deep inside him. He told himself that only the most vile creatures would hide like that, waiting for the cover of night. She was a demonic predator; she was a sinful appetite; she was...he knew she was...

...a powerful, clumsy girl. One who grew up without the blessings of Adam's children. Back when he was little, Len had thought that the most poignant aspect of a vampire's life was that hunters had to waste silver bullets on them.

 _She_ is _a waste of silver_. He hardens himself again.

"Come here," he grunts.

Her brows fly up in an arch. "Huh?"

He rolls his eyes and approaches, snatching her wrist. Her pulse thrums under his fingers. She is so warm, just like the sun. Her features are locked with hesitation and girlish panic. She fancies he is a threat to her safety. Although not unwarranted, her insecurity isn't fair.

He drags her into the golden glow pouring in from the window. She sucks in a breath, cringing as she is nearly blinded. Soon, though, she is persuaded to open her eyes, which flicker about as they well up with liquid. Specks of dust are like little pixies, dancing in the air. She raises up her palms and lets the warmth trickle over her small hands. A red glow falls through her translucent skin.

His blood at work. Blood of man. Blood of Adam. Not cursed or spoiled, tapped pure from the veins of a strapping young lad. It works wonders, and it fills her heart with the things that a person can't live without. This way, if he invites her, she can enjoy the light so reviled by her kind.

"Thank you," she says in a hitched breath. "I'm sorry - sorry."

Len pierces her with a look. "I don't forgive you." It's a lie.

She only nods quietly, picking up his hand in hers. He realizes, while her fingers lace through his, that he is cold as a stone slab. She presses her cheek against his palm, breath tickling him.

* * *

Even though I know I'm a petty criminal. I'm a devil.

* * *

He's going to cave if this keeps happening. When she is rich with life, he is cold and weak for a lack of it. One suffers when the other is even moderately healthy. It is unnatural, suspended by the aid of one mediocre doctor.

He doesn't want to take it away from her, though. Everything about her screams of humanity, even if it is borrowed from him, and he dreads the day he must steal it back with a silver vengeance. He believes it's the product of Stockholm Syndrome.

* * *

But how can I stop now when it's already "normal"?

* * *

.

.

.

AHAHAHAHA ALL OF THIS IS ALLEGORICAL


	5. texture

.

 **.**

 **_t _e_** _x_ **t** u **r** e_

 **.**

.

* * *

.

It was a little awkward to have Len sitting several feet away while she observed his painting. Normally he was hovering around her, engaging each of her comments with a helpful word or two, but he seemed tense when he gave her the stool and the easel. It seemed like he was waiting for a bomb to explode.

He wasn't a nervous person in general, but he was anticipating something.

Miku hummed thoughtfully. "I bet it's beautiful."

"It is," Len answered, swiping his fingers through his tainted brush. The dirty water sloshed around in a re-purposed Big Gulp, dripping delicately onto the tiles. The crappy air conditioner chugged on in the background as icy air snaked around her bare calves. One half of the room, the half which rested under the naked window, was subject to all of summer's heavy heat, while the other half suffered frostbite. It was a constant dilemma. They were still searching for a sweet-spot in the midst of all the turmoil.

"...That's very humble of you," she observed.

"Would you rather I deflect your compliments like a jackass?"

"I dunno. Kind of. Maybe say thank you." She reached out to poke the corner of the canvas and was delighted to find it completely dry. He'd been working on this painting on and off for the past month and it hadn't once been dry in her presence. She felt his eyes on her, but he said nothing to dissuade her; she raised her fingertips to the intricate swirls and patterns. It was a little bit rude, he'd told her, but as long as she appreciated his work, it wasn't a problem. The parts that were most painful to look at were the most uncomfortable and prickly to feel; the parts that didn't matter to him were relatively smooth.

The painting was jagged acrylic, overflowing with every kind of texture, and smelled sweet - in the old-paint kind of way. She reached all the way up to the top of the canvas, where she knew the light was coming from - deep and powerful, sweeping strokes melted down from...the sun. It had to be a big and bright sun in the middle of the sky.

"Did you use yellow in this one?"

"I could have used neon green and ultramarine. It doesn't matter," he said, humor sneaking behind his words.

Her cheeks swelled up with a smile. "You used gold."

He continued cleaning his pallet knife, the chemical scent spilling from his direction. "Prove it."

Len was very particular about his colors. He detested gold, and tried his best to use it sparingly. Since he didn't mind explaining, she knew that it was an issue of his past. When she'd first met him, she'd been freshly wounded and he'd been more into dark and moody pallets - the typical brooding angst fest that she had just pulled herself out of. His reasons were unsavory, to say the least, something tainted by a lackluster childhood. As a result, that phase of his style had resonated with her a little too well. Now she was, for better or worse, his biggest fan.

She couldn't do much for his ego. He had to explain nearly every element just for her to enjoy his art, which sort of defeated the purpose of a visual medium. But he managed to be happy and even experiment a little, which was how he got to the new state of heavy textures and, as he told her, "bullshit color choices."

She could only feel care and attention in the grooves that his knife had been. Gentle swirls of a summer breeze that cascaded into the smooth hills. Over a gradual period, they had discovered what shapes made sense as symbols and they decided that great slopes were hills, puffy swirls were crowds, so on and so forth. He'd built a sunlit meadow, in brilliant tall grasses, dotted with blooming flowers, and all of this skated by a tiny figure which she almost didn't notice.

there was a flat, boring spot with tiny little dots for eyes. They were a blob of nothing. They were engulfed, overwhelmed, alone. They did not struggle against the sea of blazing bushes.

She guessed the eyes were a downcast blue.

"What are you going to name it?"

"I'm not." He paused, wiping his hands on a rag before tossing it on the bench with a wet _thwack_. "I don't think it needs a name."

"That's not a very spirited decision." She mumbled, dragging her fingers to the bottom right corner. She couldn't find any indication of a signature.

"Well, I'm not sharing this with anyone else."

"I want you to name it something."

He voice started up with a hint of wilderness, just a touch of nature in it's smooth edge. "I haven't come up with anything in all this time." She could just imagine him behind her, raising up his finger for a rebuttal, and then his brow furrowing down as his mouth felt shut.

"Try a little more." Miku continued to navigate the rich vegetation on the edges of the canvas. All of it stuttered until it reached a smooth winding path that carried her right back to the hill again, bathing in the curves of sunlight.

"Why do you want it to have a name?"

She wished she could look over her shoulder. Well, it was fine that she couldn't. "It doesn't feel very finished."

The air-conditioner shuddered to death and stopped its quite roar as he said, "It doesn't?"

Her head snapped up. She inclined her ear toward him, grazing the edge of his easel. His chair squeaked, then his shoes pressed gently over the floor. He leaned over her shoulder and pressed his own fingers to the meadow again.

He continued, "I'm sure I didn't miss anything."

"But the person there is blank."

"The...oh, that's not important."

For a moment, she just didn't have anything to say to him. She was busy admiring the craftsmanship. Every inch of the canvas met in a stream, coming together without a hitch, but no part of it was the same. Those intricate loops and weaved patterns, the entire landscape which he'd carved in priceless gold - she'd gotten so use to the effort that he put into translating his art for her, but now she had something he'd painted _for her_.

"What's important is the background. That's the focus," he whispered, his heart beating carefully against her. She wondered how it could be so steady and gentle. His proximity was always soothing.

She swallowed, folding her hands in her lap. "It's not fair to the person."

"I don't get how."

"I almost didn't notice. I could barely feel them there at all."

He stepped back. "You're way too worried about that one person."

"You're not worried about them at all."

"What, do you want a portrait now?"

Miku jolted, whirling around on the stool to face him. She wobbled a bit, nearly toppling over, and she felt his hands shoot out to her waist to steady her.

"Paint me a portrait of you!" She crowed, reaching up to grab his shoulders. Luckily, she found them immediately.

He spluttered. "But you've already touched my face." He mostly smelled of tired acrylics, but his breath held the distinct flavor of mint.

"I want to see you in your style." She craned her neck, leaning up so that their foreheads could meet. She was so close now that she figured their eyelashes might brush up against each other. The heat from his body was comfortably close now. She moved so that she could catch his cheeks in her palms. Some of his hair got tangled in her fingers; it was pleasantly soft, and if she remembered his description correctly, garishly blond. "I want to see you like you see you."

It seemed like something was about to burst, like the surface of water was about to be pierced. She grinned at him.

"You don't even commission me," he reminded her.

"I pay attention."

"Attention doesn't buy dinner, sweetheart." Len set her back gingerly, the stool scraping the floor as he did so.

Miku cocked her head, pretending to mull over his words. "Then I'll take you out. For this piece, and for the portrait. I think that's reasonable." She felt along the edge of the paint-splattered easel behind her until she tracked the top of her cane. Then she took it in one hand, toying with the strap.

He sighed and nodded - she just knew he did.

"Dress nicely," she instructed him.

"For who?"

"I still have hands." Then the air-conditioner jerked itself awake once more.

"I don't want you to grope me, Miku." He gathered his brushes into a lose bundle and crossed the room, his voice wavering in the distance.

"Oh."

His voice took a sharp turn into some hearty chuckles. "You sound so disappointed."

She got up, tapping her cane tentatively near the bench - paint tubes rolled away from it occasionally and she didn't want to fall on her face again. Without incident, she managed to get to the cabinet as he was stacking and clacking different object inside of it.

As well as she could guess, he was about a head taller than her. She faced him, imagining his figure, imagining his movements. Probably very measured and precise. The ruckus slowed to a stop and he gently moved a lock of hair out of her eyes. His thumb was warm on her cheek.

There wasn't much that she wouldn't give to look at him - to look at her parents, and her friends, to see a sunset or a Disney movie or a lovely painting again.

But as it stood she was very pleased with what she could feel.

* * *

..

..

..

..

..

idk man texture is really important to me


	6. pobrecito

**pobrecito**

* * *

.

.

"Is it weird that I feel safe right now?" Miku asks, tilting her head back. She pours heat into the air, a stream of white that melts into the smog. A glowing orb in the sky teases her with a silvery-blue tint. She tugs the drawstrings of his hoodie and clutches the fabric even closer around her shoulders.

Len nods at her, adjusting the paper bag against his chest. _It's unfair,_ he thinks, of her question, but he doesn't say that. "Being broke and all, _I'm_ just as likely to mug you as any rando from the trash can," he promises. He clenches his teeth and resists every shudder he can.

 _Suck it up._ After all, he's still got the hot bag of food, while she's balancing the icy sodas in one arm. The wind gushes past them, shooting their hair up in a frenzy. Then it goes to rattle the brown leaves on a skinny white tree.

He glances at the ground, where a deep crack has split the asphalt. It carries on all the way up the alley, beyond where the light can touch. Her dingy tennis shoes traipse one side of this Crack, while his faded sneakers track over the other.

Her nose wrinkles up in a precious look of distaste. "You're not tough enough for crime," She mumbles, bringing one hand up to rub her face.

Her gaze is ghostly and moonlit. She carries all of her pride in her sea-colored eyes. It's easy to forget how small she is, if one just ignores her context. But when she's caged by these towering brick walls, cocooned in the city's thick musk and its ugly darkness, she is too easy to lose. He is, too; forgettable, untraceable, he's all grays and browns. It's terrifying.

They dip around the corner, twisting past shadows as they follow The Crack. It sparkles with bits of green glass and garbage runoff. Miku takes the opportunity to latch onto his arm, tensing up for her favorite part of the journey - because she can somehow smile in here and he hasn't questioned it in a long time. He just enjoys her lukewarm touch for a moment, almost laughing at the way his heart jumps.

The streetlight they pass under is a rich orange beam. They can never see the head of the lamp even when they look up, so they think that this light is coming from some tear in the universe, a little hole that no deity cares to patch; thus the drippings of heaven have made a little puddle in their nook of the world. Miku in particular is delighted by this theory, satisfied that one holy thing has made it through to them while they are at their most sore, tired and hungry state.

They slide past the bright space. At the end of the alley is one last dumpster that is always burgeoning with trash. They can't tell what color it is because it has been vandalized with everything the rainbow has to offer, and it's absolutely hideous.

After that they have finally made it into the lot, which is also small, but much less claustrophobic. Against the furthest wall is the Road Roller, the slender, brassy heirloom of the Kagamine clan. It fell into Len's hands, not because anyone had wanted him to have it, but because he had beaten his elder twin in the most intense battle in the family's recorded history. He goes hard when it comes to Rock, Paper, Scissors.

Len unlocks the door with a bit of trouble, juggling the bag and the keys. He manages to work things out and then he opens the door for his girl. She plops into her seat and sticks his coke into a cupholder while he turns on the heaters. A preliminary splash of frigid air slaps them both.

They soak up the silence for a moment, squirming in the dead cold. The upholstery stings against him and he makes a mental note to not to back-flop into bed tonight.

She reaches into the bag and pulls out a fry. After inspecting it thoroughly, she pops it into her mouth. "Let's just stay here."

He frowns. "I don't want to eat in my car."

"But Mrs. Sakine's probably prowling around in the hall."

Len presses the interior light and his dim surroundings are made clearer. The windows begin to whiten as the temperature shifts. "And?"

" _And_ , if she spots us, she'll wanna talk about rent," Miku argues, sipping soda through her straw. The ice cubes crackle, scratching against each other.

"If we stay we could actually get hijacked," he begins, and then he sucks in a breath when he notices cutting pain in his lower back. As if he had been lugging a giant tree across the forest or something. He feels like an old man working on a farm, even though all he did was take a verbal beat-down from a soccer mom.

He glances back at the tealette, realizing the breadth of her smirk while she keeps her head down. She can't keep it to herself, though, even as she attempts to fold her smile down into a neutral line. "A burglar could be in the middle of looting our place. He'll shoot us if we head home," she reminds him.

"We will die an honorable death, defending the base," he mumbles, combing briefly through dark blond hair.

A hand flies in front of his face in a chopping motion. Miku says, "You're gonna be my human shield."

"That's fine," he relents. He reaches for her as soon as he sees the Band-Aids wrapped around her thumb. "You're incapable of self-defense."

Somehow she turns brighter, cherry lips and Caribbean eyes and shining teeth. "I was cutting leeks during the lunch rush, but my hand slipped. I bled all over the counter and _I_ got to have my break before _everyone else._ " She throws out her other arm for a dramatic gesture, nearly flinging her drink into the window.

Len doesn't even think about her almost-mess. He stares at the bombardment of plasters on her hand - each one is individually too small, so they are arranged horizontally from the tip of her thumb to the base. "That's so gross," he pauses, "And lame." A couple of these Band-Aids have already worn down to weary strips, adhered by pure miracles.

She has a burn scar on the same hand, although it was very minor at the time of injury, and he can barely recognize the faded light patch now. When he touches it, he can't tell that it's any different from the rest of her skin. He only knows it by a distant memory, the time she came home complaining, oil-scented and somehow giddy for the experience, rather than disenchanted.

Miku's nose crinkles again and she squeezes his fingers. "Your face is lame."

"Mmm-hmm," he replies, brushing a weak kiss against her palm. It's still cool, and a little damp, from the soda cup.

"Do you wanna go home or do you just wanna live in the Road Roller forever?"

"I want to drive into a wall, but that's a group decision."

A hum of thought fills her mouth. "We can do that in the next recession."

"Promise?"

She blinks, pulling away. Bummer. "You're tired," she begins, her tone almost chastising. (His 'kms' jokes never sit quite well with her, but that makes him happy. She can be serious about his feelings, at least.)

"I'm tired," he agrees.

She sets her cup snug into the other cup holder. "We can go home." She tries to tuck some of her hair back into the loose braids, 'try' being the key word.

"Great." He sticks his keys into the ignition.

"I just remembered that we're out of dish soap."

Len snorts. "Are you worried about the one soup bowl that we haven't cleaned since we got it?"

"I'm worried about where all the soap is going. Do you remember the last time we even used it?"

He opens his mouth to tell her exactly when he last used it, but nothing comes to mind.

"Let's just deal with it later." By later, he means never, and by never he means the next time that it occurs to them that they need that soup bowl. Which is never. They haven't made food at home in a while.

Miku reports that it's eleven fifty-nine p.m. The temperature is thirty-nine degrees Fahrenheit. When he asks, she tells him that she isn't tired, and is he okay to drive because he looks so gray and quiet?

He is okay, he says. He's always been gray and quiet. It just matters less when he has someone perfectly bright next to him.

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* * *

I've heard that you can love someone so much, you don't feel tired, or cold, or hungry with them.

I get it, kind of.


	7. titular poem

**night owl loves early bird**

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I was scared.

Of course I was scared.

I had her, at least. She whispered to me,

and every word was silk.

We were just there in the quiet parts of dawn

in the cracks where light begins to bleed from a scarlet Sun

while the Moon still bares a blurry face

and still whispers its drowsy secrets.

The trees were jagged and bare.

The storm had scraped the sky until it was raw and pink.

We were just there on the edge of the world, ignoring the abyss of muck

below our feet.

A crescent of joy filled her ethereal face.

I couldn't smile back.

The air was old and fresh at the same time

heavy and soft in the same breath.

She said she was chilly so I reached for her.

She was as cold as the fog that curls around the moon

and she could seep through my fingers.

I felt my heart turn fog-cold, too

felt it shudder

and fall

felt it hang like an old rock

in my chest.

She said she was tired -

\- the Moon falls every day,

after all -

so she fell

against my shoulder

and her face was veiled in shadow.

But her eyes were still glowing,

pearls of the night still lingering in darkness.

She asked me to sing her a song, and I did.

 _There's relief in the sunrise,_

 _not at the end of a war._

 _There's pride in the golden Sun,_

 _fear in the Moon who shrinks away._

 _There's comfort in the dewy grass,_

 _more so than in a fuzzy cloud._

But, clearly, I was scared.

She wasn't.

We were cradled in clovers

but this grass was soaking wet and jagged and the only warmth left was myself.

So, I am a liar.

She said she was still glad -

Somehow, she said it without a touch of despair.

Goodbye was climbing from the horizon.

The Moon bid me a ghostly farewell

and the Sun,

the only shape in a rippling sky,

gleamed with every wretched color.

·

·

·

night owl loves early bird,

in spite of the Sun.


	8. moonlit knight

Of course this was inspired by SparkyBubbles with her detailed mythology UuU.

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The throne room is the biggest room of all - the emptiest. Most servants have abandoned their position. Those that didn't, well, they paid for their loyalty.

Len storms across the marble floor with rage in his gait. He is the only one to enter the room as the cries of chaos continue behind him. His heart thunders beneath his armor. He tells himself it is pumping courage through his veins, the way his father had said, and the way _his_ father before _him_ had told them. The pain in all of his limbs is simply cowardice escaping his bones.

He steels himself as he plunges into the dark room, towards the one light that descends from the ceiling. It is heavenly and white. What a joke.

He sees a pile of decadent fabric on the throne, identifies it as the most wanted woman in the country, and announces her fate.

 _Death to all who oppose the King of the Sun._

His voice cracks again when he says this. He has started growing up just this year, but as far as the General was concerned, every boy in his village was enough of a man to fight.

She peers at him from behind many layers of silk and cloth which cover her completely. Something is wrong.

Her smile is true, if weak.

He can barely hear her respond. She doesn't shout.

Doesn't she hate him? He's sure of that. He's meant to hate her. His blood is white hot with generations of spite.

The enemy. _The other. The dark side of the moon._

 _We are the sun._

 _The gods cursed them. They loved us._

 _We hate each other._

But he gazes up at the queen who is too young to be queen, a girl who is just a little too small for her imperial robes, and he finds that he does not hate those moonlit eyes.

The way her rosy lips form her words - the way her delicate hands gesture to him, spreading her arms with loving acceptance - the way she receives him is too gentle, too familial.

And how has he arrived in contrast?

She lowers her head, both to bow to him and to lower her throat towards the end of his scarlet sword. Teal hair drips from her crown and pools at the foot of her throne.

The black edge of the pearly moon, they called her. _The leader of darkness._ Her dress is the color of stars.

She should not be a monarch, but her grace and calm are nothing short of royal training. He knows she is not a scapegoat, merely a weak leader. Her army is lazy and easy to break.

The words that she has been speaking are now clear to him. "A quiet death," she begs, "a humble death. Please."

Her smile is cold with fear.

The storm of war crashes again, fervent cries scraping for the heavens. He has just left the outside. There is nowhere to step without crushing a man beneath your feet. This is what she fears.

"You shouldn't have been a queen," he tells her, with the foul taste of pity in his mouth.

"You shouldn't have been a soldier," she answers, piercing his heart and draining the courage away.

He knows that she's right. They are drowning in their respective suits, too small to fill the shoes that had been left for them. His arms quake with effort as he keeps his blade close to her white throat. Her smile shivers with horror.

He readies himself for a horrible, messy death, because he cannot execute cleanly. He is not confident with his sword.

The eyes of turquoise watch him with trust, as if such innocence is fair in this cruel world.

 _Her, the darkest corner of a well lit night._

And him, a single ray of the golden sun. In his village, they had grown wheat and boys. Once the blood had been washed from the valley, they would sow new seeds. They would grow more boys. But what about the people of the moon? Will they even be remembered when he buries his weapon in their little queen's heart?

She reaches down and wipes his face with her soft white hands. He shudders, stunned by the gentle fingers that brush blood from his stinging brow. "Aim well, warrior." Her whisper tickles his ear, the one which he thought had gone deaf with the roar of canons. She smells of spring flowers and fresh water.

 _Hated so deeply by the gods._

 _Her death so greatly desired by his King._

She begins to pull her hands back. He does not know why, but he grabs her wrist and leans close to her.

Not a trace of evil shines in her ethereal face.

She is confused more than alarmed. She obeys the pull of his arm, stepping down from the oversized throne. Her satin slippers are not made to walk. Without thinking, ge unclasps the robe that sinks off of her shoulders instantly. It is incredibly heavy, decked in jewels that weigh more than a human head. Her dress beneath it is still modest.

He takes the silver crown away and tosses it aside.

"Let it go," he orders, "all of it."

Although bewildered, she understands. She peels away the many jewels that decorate her neck and hair, discarding the few rings that she wore in a puddle of red. One of these is a ring of promise. A dark laugh rumbles in his throat at the thought of her unlucky betrothed.

He grabs her hair. She is startled as he brings his sword against her shining tresses. Still, she says nothing. Soon her hair is merely shoulder length.

The royal glow is still present in her face. She is meant to be queen.

 _Not in his eyes._

Len extends his hand, the calloused, bloody hand that threatened her life.

"If the queen is gone, can the girl live on?"

Has she ever been called a girl? A human?

Her lip trembles as her eyes overflow. She begins to sob, her voice still silent when compared to the clash of metal and fire just outside. Standing in the wreckage of her former wealth, she somehow looks even smaller than he first believed.

He wraps her in his cloak, covering what is left of her alarming beauty. He takes her tightly by the hand, and for the rest of the night, he swears, he will not let go.

* * *

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Of course this is getting a sequel from Miku's perspective!


	9. sun-soaked queen

Second part of moonlit knight.

* * *

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When the moon was high, he asked for her name.

She told him she was the dark edge of the moon, daughter of the midnight queen, granddaughter of stardust, sister of-

He said, "no. Your _name_." His eyes were so harsh.

The name was buried somewhere deep, nestled under years of tutoring and ceremonies and silk and sharp whispers of "Do it right! Stand properly or the maids will whip your back!" She told him she was Miku, even though she was unsure of her own answer. He squeezed her hand as if in approval.

He told her that he was Len.

He was a ray of the sun, according to the crest of his armor, but by his own account he was merely a boy from a farming village, taken to serve in place of his ailing father. He couldn't read very well. He liked fruit.

He told her that she was Miku from now on. If anyone should ask, she was a treasured slave of the moon queen that had saved a simple farm boy from his untimely death, and earned herself a life debt. She wasn't sure that such a story would truly work, but he assured her that most people didn't know her face. She would simply have to lose the grace of royalty.

It would be easy, he believed, and he told her as much when they were slinking through the shadows of a ransacked palace.

There was so much screaming. Bodies splintered into nothing, crushed under a stampede of furious soldiers. Gory pulp. Wicked men. monstrous _boys_.

And she was dragging her heels to witness it all. Because she was under a sun cloak, everyone ignored her. It gave her ample time to witness the execution of vassals that she had known since childhood. They took swords through their bellies, and no cries for mercy left their mouths.

She watched as Gakupo Kamui knelt under an enemy's blade. He used to bring vegetables from the countryside. The robes that he had earned were in tatters, and his swollen face was hard to recognize. He glanced up by mere chance. Something glimmered in his eyes as he noticed his queen slipping out of the horror. He choked on a smile.

Len yanked her away before she could watch him die.

* * *

Here is something Miku never experienced for herself, and therefore never understood on an instinctive level:

Flesh _breaks_.

It cracks open like a shell, and blood charges through the wound. The color is stark on untouched skin. A shock of lightning runs up her arm. It's not enough to make her let go of the wooden beam that has hurt her. She is more confused than afraid when her hand overflows with pain.

Len _is very_ afraid, however. He rushed to her side and grabs her by the wrist, spitting foul curses under his breath. He calls her clumsy as he tears a long strip from the cloak. He calls her stupid.

And he calls her Miku.

It makes her insides buzz when the word glides across his tongue so casually. He acts as if she has only even been clumsy, stupid Miku, stumbling across the ruins of a town.

 _Just as the moon chases the sun, she follows him blindly._

She has been saying his name to herself when he's not paying attention. _Len_. He is gold and bright. _Len_. He scowls when something makes him nervous. _Len_. His hands are warm and rough and steady, so long as he isn't wielding a sword.

He finishes tying the makeshift bandage, cutting off the scarlet flow. "Stop grabbing random things," he instructs, then he takes her other hand to lead her away from the busted wagon. They walk across shards of wood. Miku watches her step while the soldier watches their perimeter. They seem to be alone, if the broken corpses on the street don't count. They take tiny alleys and back roads to avoid the oppressive stench of death. Sometimes another figure passes by in the distance, never close enough to interact.

They've been walking for long enough that the blisters on her feet have gone numb. Even so, they're still very close to the palace, close enough that the smell of burning bodies is carried on the wind. Miku decides she can't be afraid, because someone else is already risking his life for her. She wants to know why, but at the same time she is afraid to ask.

Streaks of sunlight are smeared on the ground.

 _Gold and Bright._

 _She should stay in her shadows._

"Len?" She murmurs, enjoying the name as she pronounces it.

He grunts in response.

"Where do you live?"

He thinks for a moment. "In a valley," He whispers, as if his mind has returned to his childhood home. She can see the fields reflected in his eyes, as well as the endless summer skies, and from the slight smile growing at the corner of his mouth, she knows that he dreams of home.

"Is it sunny there?"

"Yes."

 _Is it smiled upon by great, divine things?_

"Is it warm?"

"In the summer," he hums thoughtfully, "but our winters are colder than most valleys."

"Why?"

"Because our great-great-grandfathers angered the gods." His boots kick away bits of glitter, clearing a path for her more delicate shoes. She looks up and sees the remnants of stained glass windows in the temple walls. She also sees a ghost of a moon, still visible among the puny clouds. _The moon that follows the sun so eagerly._

"What did they do?"

Len examines the temple's shattered door. There seems to be no one inside. They both instinctively think of offerings, gifts of precious food that people could have left behind in their panic. It's not likely, but they are eager to eat something. He answered her with little attention: "Our ancestors tricked the Sun into giving them fire. So the gods punished their insolence by giving them the kind of winter that kills."

It's strangely cold inside. She pulls the cloak tighter around herself, squeezes his hand. They can hear their own footsteps, which makes Len wary, but he doesn't stop as long as Miku stays behind him. Lights climbs through the shattered glass. It makes everything looks bright, burning with many colors. All the lamps have been taken, and the gold coins that usually litter the alters are conspicuously missing.

"I didn't know your gods punished you as much as they punish us," she says, her voice crumbling.

"Don't your gods do the same?" He turns back and inspects her with an expression that she has seen just enough times to identify as pity. She wonders if she would prefer being hated. her little shreds of pride mean nothing to him at all, which hurts more than anything. She's a _queen_. She's the horrible, elusive nemesis of the almighty Sun King, isn't she?

 _She is a girl and she has nothing._

 _He is a ray of the sun with a home waiting for him. What does he want with her?_

Len catches her tears with a gentle hand. His breath is warm, soothing, melting into her own. "It's alright," he says. "You're alive, Miku. Praise the gods that want you here." Day has nearly broken through the horizon, slanting across rooftops and sinking into the temple's atmosphere. He catches her chin and tilts her face up to ensure eye contact. _Beautiful_. He looks like pure gold in this morning glow, like Helios, like fire, like-

Miku removes herself. There's a small offering left on one alter - she lunges for it. The bottle is small and cool to the touch.

"Wine," she sucks in a breath. "Are you thirsty?" Her face feels like a flame. She keeps her head down as the tears subside.

There seems to be more. Len holds back the words that are eager to escape his mouth. He simply sits down in the sunshine, colored gorgeously by the flattering light, and watches her rip the cork from the container. She drinks with relief. Something sweet and cold after a nervous, deadly night, it makes her feel like she can survive a little while longer.

She extends her hand to him and he takes the bottle. He frowns when he realizes that it is mostly full. "Miku, come here."

She goes. Just like the moon following the sun.

He tries to make her take the glass vessel back. With her lack of interest in their only bit of food, he is bound to be worried about her health. But she doesn't want to take it and he is clearly thirsty, so he drinks with a pained look on his face.

Not all of it is his, though. He hands her the rest of the wine as he snaps at her, "come on now, act like you want to live!"

She wishes the alcohol were stronger. She wishes she wasn't stealing from a temple and defying cruel deities. She wishes her people's ugly deaths weren't weighing upon her. But wishes are for people who honor their holy lords, and she is soon to be a godless nobody. She collapses onto her savior with her arms round his neck, weeping bitter and selfish tears as the empty bottle rolls quietly on the floor.

She hiccups. "They've abandoned the people. I've - I have abandoned my-"

"Do you want to die with them?" He demands, with a steel grip on her shoulders.

She shakes her head, the shame welling up in her flushed face. She just wants to hide and fade away.

"Be scared of death. It's not your job to perish here, and it's not my job to slaughter you," he promises, his voice weakening in a sudden spray of wind that smells like an apocalypse.

Len is hardly any older than her. His face is tinted with blood, but he is just a farm boy.

Miku remembers the weight of a crown on her head and guilt in her heart. Even so, she is only a girl.

That is everything she will believe from now on.

* * *

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Maybe I should add another one and make it a three parter? Hmmmm...

It just doesn't seem like these two can really go home together. In old mythology, you can't reject your gods and then continue living...


	10. stolen sun

Fire was a piece of the sun.

It had been swiped from its container, and so it danced wildly, clawing for the sky, screaming for its heavenly father to take it back.

We were never meant to have it, Len tells her, it was a piece of the heavens, and we stole it from the mountaintop. We who live on dirt like the beasts and the bugs, we who devour and invade and destroy each other. We love things that don't belong to us.

Miku leans toward the fire and enjoys the light. We love that color, don't we? Len asks her, and her heart feels like a fire of its own, yearning and squirming in her burning chest. She likes when he tells her these stories. He always says "we did this" or "we think that" and she can pretend that "we" includes her as well. She can ask him "why did we do this?" "what did we do next?" and he doesn't correct her.

Her clothes are still wet, but thanks to the fire that they sit next to, and Len's cloak, it isn't cold. She watches the little drops that cling to Len's hair. He has sneezed three times now. She hasn't said anything. Sometimes the silence is heavier, thicker than it should be. It made Len nervous, but after an hour he felt that it was natural, because of the rain. His voice dissolves the quiet. He speaks the same way he walks, as if treading on enemy territory. He isn't louder than the soft thud of rain against the roof. Somehow, though, he's all that Miku hears.

"We love that color," Miku answers, softly. The gold and the red that melt into one another. The hypnotic mixture of the two. Beautiful things are easy to want.

"There's a tree," Len says suddenly, "that bears fruit you don't have here. We earned that tree."

Miku's heart dims just a little. He drew the line now, the "you" and "we" have been pried apart. "What did you do?" she asks, recoiling from the heat.

For a moment Len doesn't say anything. The wailing winds outside have pushed the house, made the wood groan.

"We killed our King."

"...why?"

"The gods asked us to. I'm sure you've never heard that story."

"Where did you hear it?"

"From someone who's dead now," he sighed as he leaned back on his elbows. "You'll hear things like that, too. Stories from people on their deathbeds. And you'll save them for someone else."

"You have so many stories."

"There are a lot of people on deathbeds."

Miku doesn't like his tone. It frightens her, how flat he sounds right now. "Then you should save some of them for that time of your life. Don't waste your breath in this place."

He looked at her then, his face looking stark and cold, but his eyes alive with the color of the sun. "This is all I can give to you," he reminds her.

She turns away, giving her back to the fire, and curls up underneath the cloak.

We love beautiful things, but the greatest gifts are the ugliest ones: the pain of life, the warmth of a hearth. The fear of death. Where would she be without his stories?

* * *

Although he has stared at the burning coals for half an hour, Len hasn't realized that the fire is collapsing into nothing. He has been thinking since the rain stopped. It's difficult to think. Even the occasional drop of water from the ceiling makes him flinch and press his hand on the hilt of his sword.

Do they think he's dead? They saw him. _Someone_ saw him go. He was never sent home. His family won't know where he is. He might go back, but what would become of him if-

Drip.

It has grown even colder since Miku fell asleep. She hasn't shivered, so at least she can't feel it. He wishes there was more food in this house. He wishes she would complain more, at least to fill the gaps in their brief conversations. He wants her to share stories, too, but she doesn't have that many. Every now and again he feels like she's a glass doll sitting in a glass case, and the bile rises in his throat, and he clenches his teeth. Those moments where she won't say anything - it's like the afternoon sky without that ghost of a moon, so empty, so lonely -

Drip.

His hand flickers over his sword until the silence floods back into the room. They haven't been seen yet. Well, they haven't seen anyone looking. He's kept watch. He'll sleep a bit later.

For the first time in a while, Miku stirs. Her eyes open without much ceremony. She looks at the door first, then she looks at Len, then she releases the breath he didn't know she was holding.

"Daybreak is coming soon," he assures her.

"Were you waiting?"

"I didn't want to sleep."

She sits up, rubs her eyes. Breathes again. That soft noise is audible again. It makes Len feel better.

"What do we do now?"

"We're not out of the city walls yet."

"But, when we leave, what do we do?"

"Take refuge," he surmises, "it can't be that hard. The neighboring country is very sympathetic to the Moon Kingdom."

She crosses the distance between them, sliding over to his side. "Then what will we do?"

Len swallows. "Well, we'll know."

The warmth of her hand spreads on his.

"I remembered something good," she says, her eyes imploring. He waits patiently for her to continue while his thumb sweeps circles across her knuckles.

"There's a story about a bird that sings so sweetly, he brings life to dead trees. His feathers are so beautiful that they restore vision to the blind. Do you know where he lives?"

Len doesn't know.

"At the very edge of the world. Just beyond a cliff that faces the Eastern sea. I want to hear him sing."

 _Is that what you want?_

"Are you sure he's there?"

"I'm sure we'll hear beautiful things."

She already knows its "we" because of course he's going with her. Of course he believes her. There are no lies that could pass her lips because she is an innocent girl. A human, yes, but such a new addition to the human race that she is blameless.

At any rate, the future is as certain as the distant past. Each is obscured, dressed in layers of cryptic prophecy or dust.

They leave soon after they make the decision. The little village, glossed with rain, is so hollow that Len cannot help but fear every shadow that gnaws at the edge of his vision. It's not right. Overturned carts, empty windows, a dropped basket of apples that sprouts with flies. Not right. Did the villagers leave before or after the swarm of soldiers? Would anyone else come?

The pressure of a soundless atmosphere has finally caught up with Miku, who trails close behind the boy.

"It's strange," she says, looking at nothing in particular. "How do you feel, Len?"

"The way you feel." Tired. Hungry. Anxious.

"Oh! Delightful," she murmurs. And upon the pressing look which he gives her she adds, "We neither of us feel lonely."

He takes in the sight of her, hazy eyes set in a soft, fair face, and a delicate mouth that carries words like an evening breeze carries the sweet breath of spring flowers. She smiles at him, as if he's said something witty or beautiful. He's tempted to touch the graceful curve of her cheek. The weight of her hand in his is suddenly not enough.

He faces forward and asks her, in a fumbling but stubborn sort of way, if she minds being in the constant presence of a male. He's half afraid that she will let go. She never does. What comes instead is a sigh that he could swear he felt on the back of his neck - which causes him to jump slightly.

She blinks. "If the company of men was repulsive to me, how would I ever get to marry?"

 _Innocent girl._

He wishes he could press further - explain that their companionship would look strange and even inappropriate to outsiders - but he really shouldn't. No good would come of embarrassing her again.

"Is that still an ambition of yours? Marriage?"He can't resist the urge to ask. His mind flickers back to the engagement ring he had seen. For some reason it nauseates him.

He can't tell if the color in her cheeks is due to exertion or girlish insecurity. After a quiet moment, Miku nods at him, her fingers curling around his just the slightest bit tighter.

"And you?" she whispers.

Len does think he'll marry in the future. It's normal to want a family. He likes the idea of having land of his own, and raising crops with his wife and children; a very intangible future, but nonetheless one that makes him smile.

"That suits you. You'll be a lovely farmer, I suppose." Her voice strikes a chord of sadness, somehow. It's a little disheartening.

"Tell me your dream, then. After we hear the most beautiful bird, what do you want to do?"

When she has no dream to confess, Len scolds her for her lack of drive. "Why sleep at night, if you don't dream?" he reasons.

"It's not that I don't," she insists, anxiety creeping under her voice. "None of my aspirations is as solid and likely as yours." A pinkish halo is rising from the east, brightening their silhouettes as they descend the hill of gray-blue grass. A certain smell has risen from the ground, a rich and earthy one.

Len helps the girl cross over a bank of mud. "That isn't the point of it, though. Don't constrain yourself to reality unless you're lacking in faith."

To this she says nothing. Her freshly cut hair is somehow vibrant, even under the thick lights of dawn. Len considers her the most impossible creature he has ever laid eyes upon. If she exists, there are other fantastic things that could happen.

* * *

'Sup

Depression is kicking my ass

I hope this chapter makes somebody happy. Also Imma add more chapters to this particular story, is that cool?


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